Amanda Wakes Up

by Alisyn Camerota

  “What can he do?”

  “Well, he can stop Virginia Wynn from abolishing the Second Amendment, for one.”

  “Virginia Wynn does not want to abolish the Second Amendment,” I told him.

  “Well, not yet,” Tom said. “But if she wins this election she will. First it’s these proposals she’s laying out. Next it will be taking away all our guns.”

  “Here, let me get in on this,” Susan said, standing to Tom’s right and pushing her head closer to my microphone. “Virginia Wynn wants all these new laws but Victor Fluke knows there are already twenty thousand gun laws on the books!”

  “But they’re not working,” I told her. “The number of mass shootings and school shootings has gone up. Don’t you want to stop those?”

  “Hell, yeah, we do,” Tom said. “Every time some deranged lunatic shoots up a theater, it hurts our cause. But if a crazy person started mowing down people with his Chevy Bronco, we wouldn’t be taking away everyone’s cars or holding automobile manufacturers responsible.”

  “Why should regular people be able to buy AK-47s?” I asked.

  “Cause they’re a heck of a lot of fun!” Bill laughed and so did the rest.

  “But no self-respecting hunter needs an AK-47 that can fire a hundred rounds.”

  “No one needs a sports car either,” Bill said. “But in America you have the freedom to buy one. And cars are not even protected in the Constitution the way guns are.”

  “Oh, hey, Amanda,” Tom in the hat said, “here comes my wife. Over here, honey!” He waved across the street to someone. “I knew she wouldn’t want to miss this.”

  I lowered the mic for a second and turned to await Tom’s wife, already imagining another gray-haired Granite Stater, so when I saw her, I gasped. “Oh, my God, you’re black!” I almost said.

  “Hey, honey!” Tom said, putting his arm around her. “Amanda, this is my wife, Joyce. She’s another one of your big fans.”

  “I raced right over,” Joyce said, “when Tom texted me that FAIR News was here. This is exciting for us.”

  “And are you a fan of Victor Fluke’s, too?” I asked, thinking there might be a reason why she’d stayed home.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “I love what he says—the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun.”

  “Well, then, let me ask you,” I said to Joyce, lifting the mic to her mouth. “There are something like 270 million guns in this country. Is Senator Wynn right when she says we need to get a lot of those off the streets?”

  “Actually, guns make us safer,” Joyce told me. “Firearm ownership is at an all-time high and violent crime is down. Do you know that someone tried to break into our house last year?” Joyce said, looking at me with new urgency. “And it took the police fifteen minutes to get there!”

  “Oh, my gosh,” I said. “What did you do?”

  Joyce looked over at Tom. “I introduced him to my friend Sig Sauer,” he said. “Shot a couple rounds out the window. And funny enough, that guy never came back.”

  “That’d do it!” Susan said. The other friends gave hearty laughs. “Sixty-two thousand violent crimes a year are stopped by regular people like Tom having guns and fighting off the bad guys,” Susan told me. “Virginia Wynn never tells you that statistic.”

  Wow, this is tougher than I thought. They have an answer to everything.

  “What about the gun-show loophole?” I asked, thinking this would be my last question. These people were like one-stop shopping for sound bites; we could go after they shot this one down. “What’s your problem with closing that?”

  “I don’t have a problem with closing that,” Tom said. Bill and Susan moved their heads back and forth for a second, as if deciding whether to disagree, then shook their heads in agreement.

  “Wait, what?” I said.

  “Why should there be one bar for everyone, but then a door next to that bar for people at gun shows to walk through?”

  He’d lost me. Was that a metaphor or was there really a door next to a bar at a gun show that people kept walking through? “Can you say that again?”

  “They should close the gun-show loophole,” Bill said. “If we have to fill out background checks, everyone should have to.”

  Whoa, what? This was getting more interesting. “How about the forty percent of sales that are private, person-to-person transfers to a friend or relative? Should those require background checks?” I knew that’d fire them back up.

  Tom reluctantly nodded. “I’m fine with that, I guess. Background checks for everyone.”

  Is anyone else hearing this? I turned to look at my cameraman to make sure he was rolling on this moment of consensus with Virginia Wynn.

  “So beyond closing the loophole,” I pressed, energized by the unexpected agreement, “how about keeping guns out of the hands of the mentally ill?”

  “Oh, yes,” Joyce said. “I’d like to see HIPAA laws changed so that if someone’s a danger to themselves or others, that can be added to the gun database.”

  “Do you realize,” I started, “that those measures you just agreed to are the very things Wynn is calling for in her gun-control plan?” I was already imagining the eye-opening piece I would send back to Fatima that would reveal that everyone’s on the same page, they just don’t know it. I bet Benji will play that across the network for days.

  “Well, now, hold on,” Tom said. “Those are the only things she’s admitting to, but we know she’ll do a bait and switch if she’s elected.”

  “What if she promised only those things, nothing else?” I asked. “Then would you support her plan?”

  “I don’t trust her,” Susan said.

  That’s when I had another stroke of genius. Wynn should reach out to these people, have her own rally here, so she could hear their distrust. Or better yet, I could moderate a “Gun Town Hall Meeting” on FAIR News. I’d get these Fluke folks who want gun rights and Wynn supporters who want gun control and they could all talk to each other. Benji will go bonkers. Try that, Margot!

  “How about Wynn’s no-fly, no-buy proposal?” I pressed, drunk on my problem-solving power. “Stop people on the terrorist watch list from buying a gun. That’s a no-brainer, right?”

  I can smell the Peabody!

  “Oh, no,” Tom said. “I wouldn’t agree to that.”

  “Wait, what?” I frowned. “You’re comfortable with a terror suspect being able to buy a gun?”

  “Well, no, but I’m less comfortable with someone the FBI claims is suspicious being denied their due process and constitutional right to own a gun just because the FBI doesn’t like them. If they’re guilty of something, adjudicate them. If not, leave ’em alone. Don’t take away their constitutional rights. That’s how this country works.”

  Whelp, I guess I won’t be needing that Peabody acceptance speech. But hey, three points of agreement are a start!

  “Listen,” Susan said to me, as if I hadn’t been, “we’re here to see Victor Fluke because he understands us. That’s why he’s going to win this election. And that’s why he’s the most successful man in the world!”

  Susan said it with such conviction that for a second I thought it was an original thought. “Wait,” I said. “You know that title is from a commercial for aftershave, right?”

  “Yes, I know that!” she said. “But he really is that successful. He’s strong, and decisive, and a natural-born winner.”

  “Those were the words in the commercial!” I told her, and then we all started laughing, because it was all so absurd—for me, anyway.

  “One last question,” I said. “Any of you worried about violence here tonight?”

  “We’ve got concealed carry here in New Hampshire,” Tom laughed. “So we don’t worry about any left-wing agitators bothering us.”

  “I hope Susan isn’t packing
heat,” I told them.

  “Look out, Amanda!” she said, and then we all laughed again.

  “Okay, let me get the spelling of all your names,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my pen.

  “Sweetie, where’s your other glove?” Joyce asked me, taking my now red hand in hers and rubbing it. “Oh, my gosh, you’re freezing. Here, take my gloves! And you need a hat, too. Tom, give her your hat,” she instructed.

  “Oh, thanks,” I said, waving off her offer of putting on Tom’s SUCCESSFUL MAN cap. “The crew and I are heading inside in a sec. I’ll be fine.”

  “Do you all have a place to stay?” Tom asked. “Cause we’ve got room, if you don’t have a place.”

  “Oh, thanks, you guys,” I said, smiling at the nice and slightly ridiculous offer. “We’re going to race back to New York after this.”

  “Can I get your business card?” Bill asked. “I’d like to have it as a keepsake.”

  “He’ll cherish that,” Susan said, and I knew she was being sincere. I was starting to like these people. In fact, the idea of staying at Tom and Joyce’s place seemed sort of pleasant. I imagined Charlie and me, up for a weekend, playing cards with them in their den, then enjoying Tom’s special blueberry pancakes in the morning.

  “Here, take our number,” Joyce said, taking a pen from her purse and writing on a piece of scrap paper before pressing it into my hand. “In case you ever need anything.”

  I laughed. “Thanks. We’ll see you guys inside.”

  • • •

  The crew and I fought our way through the crowd in the stadium. And every time we hit a logjam of people, Gary would yell, “Excuse us! First Amendment emergency!” When that line got old, he’d try, “Freedom of speech, coming through!” So I was laughing all the way to the corner spot where we locked down the camera on a good shot of the podium. I leaned against a wall, rubbing my cold hand until it could hold a pen again.

  Then Fluke walked onstage, and the crowd went nuts.

  I spotted Tom, Susan, Bill, and Joyce in the crowd nodding vigorously at each other and clapping. They saw me and waved, and I waved back, like we were old high school pals at an Aerosmith concert. Watching my newfound New Hampshire friends applauding so unabashedly made me listen more closely to Fluke’s Laws of Success.

  “I’ve studied successful individuals, like myself, who’ve amassed personal fortunes. Number one, don’t be susceptible to negativity. Be susceptible to success. Be Ameri-cans.”

  He’s right. There is something satisfying about the power of positive thinking, I caught myself thinking, until that thought was interrupted by a loud bunch of protestors right near Tom and Joyce, carrying big handwritten signs.

  “FLUKE’S SUCCESS IS A SCAM!”

  “FLUKE WINS, WE ALL LOSE!”

  One sign kept it simple with “FUCK FLUKE!”

  I tapped Gary’s arm and pointed. “We should get some of those protestors after this is over.”

  “Reject all negative people,” Fluke was booming into the microphone. “Stamp out negativity!”

  At that exact moment, I heard a howl come from the crowd. “Fuck you, Fluke!” one of the protestors yelled. I looked over in time to see the crowd start to sway and tussle and some of the protestors push some of the supporters, including Tom and Joyce. I watched Tom put his hands up in a defensive block, right before one of the protestors decked him in the head.

  “Oh, my God!” I said. “They hit Tom. We have to get over there.”

  “Hold on,” Gary said. “I gotta get off the sticks and go handheld!”

  I kept my eyes trained on the spot where the fight was breaking out and saw another fist fly. I couldn’t see it connect, but Joyce reeled backward and fell to the ground. I involuntarily screamed and started rushing toward them. Even through the din, I could hear Tom yelling, “Don’t touch my wife! Back it up!” That’s when I saw Tom reach down to his lower leg and come up with a gun.

  “Oh, my God! No!” I screamed, then watched Tom clock one of the protestors in the side of the head with his gun.

  “Squash the negativity!” Fluke yelled from the podium.

  A full fracas had erupted. In the blur of bodies, I saw blood coming from Tom’s head and the head of the protestor he hit. I watched Joyce try to get up, then get elbowed down again.

  “Are you getting this?” I yelled to Gary.

  “Yes,” he told me.

  “Joyce!” I yelled when we got closer. “Tom!” But they couldn’t hear me. Security guards were already on them, dragging them out.

  • • •

  By the time the crew and I got outside, ambulances were taking people away and the cops were trying to clear the scene. Fatima emailed that she’d watched the rally live and decided it was so good, we should do the show from New Hampshire in the morning. She’d booked us at the local Comfort Inn and was sending a live truck. I read her text and told Gary and the sound guy that we’d be spending the night, then I climbed in the back of the SUV.

  “Coming up here was sure worth it,” Gary said, starting the car. “We got some great video.”

  I didn’t respond because I was having a hard time catching my breath, then I put my cold hands to my eyes and did something I had never done on a story before—I started to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” Gary asked, alarmed.

  “God, Gary, I thought somebody was going to be killed in there.”

  “Who?”

  “Joyce and Tom! Or anyone! I thought Tom was going to shoot that guy. None of this should be happening. The country has gone mad. There’s so much anger, and they don’t even realize that they agree with each other on some things. This election has made people crazy. And it’s got to stop.”

  “Do you want to go to grab a bite?” Gary asked, putting the car in drive. “Or do you want to go to the hotel and get some sleep?”

  “I want to go to the hospital,” I said. “I want to make sure they’re okay.”

  • • •

  The next morning, at 6:02 A.M., I stood in the cold in front of the now dark, quiet stadium with one glove on, waiting to give my account of what happened.

  “Amanda, get ready. We’re coming to you in ten seconds,” Fatima said. I heard the loud breaking news bong through my IFB and then Rob’s voice.

  “Let’s go live to Manchester, New Hampshire, and our own Amanda Gallo, who was at the scene of the melee last night and witnessed the violence. Amanda?”

  “That’s right, Rob. More than ten thousand people filled this civic center behind me for a chance to hear Victor Fluke. He was about ten minutes into his standard stump speech on how to be successful when we heard shouting coming from the floor and I saw a violent fistfight break out.”

  “And this morning, Amanda, there are some questions about who started that fight. Did you see that part?”

  “Yes, I did. It was . . .” At that point I paused, because for a second my foggy 6:00 A.M. brain had scrambled who were the protestors and who were supporters. Joyce and Tom were supporters of Fluke, of course, but protestors of Wynn’s gun plan, so what was the other side called? Then my connectors clicked and I knew how to clear up the confusion. “The group that started the fight were left-wing agitators who had come to shut down the rally.”

  “Now, Amanda, I’m sure you’ve heard some of the reporting on the other networks that it was the Fluke supporters who started the fight. In fact, there’s video of one of them pistol-whipping a protestor in the head.”

  “No, no, Rob,” I corrected. “That protestor, the one who got hit in the head, he started it. He threw the first punch, and, in fact, the Fluke supporter who hit him was trying to protect his wife, who had been hit and knocked to the ground by the protestors.”

  “And do you have video of that moment?” Rob asked, dutifully and perfectly, as though he’d thought of that question himself a
nd not as though I’d coached him in the commercial break preceding my live shot. The second I’d reviewed the video in the crew car last night, I realized, in horror, that Gary hadn’t gotten the money shot of the protestor hitting Tom. And that that was going to be a big fucking problem. I wanted to get out in front of it by explaining how Gary had missed it by running with the camera in his hand for a few seconds, rather than on his shoulder, thereby recording lots of shuffling of feet but not the actual fistfight. By the time Gary got the camera on his shoulder, Tom was clocking the guy in the head. That, Gary caught on tape.

  “Yes, Rob, we got video of the fight, but not the initial moments of it breaking out because our camera was locked down on Victor Fluke. But I can tell you that it was the protestors who started it by yelling obscenities and becoming violent with the Fluke supporters. And yes, one of the supporters did hit a protestor in the head with a gun, as you can see from the video on your screen right now. But given how many people in New Hampshire carry guns, it’s lucky that that protestor was only pistol-whipped and that this melee didn’t spiral into something much worse.”

  I did six live shots that morning, at the top and bottom of every hour, while Rob covered the rest of the show from the studio in New York, and by the time I got back in the car to head home, the blogosphere had blown up with reports of the Fluke supporters starting the fight and my reporting being wrong.

  Huffington Post: FAIR NEWS ANCHOR BLAMES “LEFT-WING AGITATORS” FOR MELEE

  Salon: AMANDA GALLO CLAIMS VIOLENT FLUKE SUPPORTERS WERE VICTIMS

  Stupid mainstream media, I heard myself think. Luckily, I had a four-hour car ride back to New York, during which I could compose a strongly worded email to every single blogger and hater to tell them they weren’t there and had no fucking idea what they were talking about. Then I stopped and put my phone down, looked out the window, and thought about the anchorman at Newschannel 13 who wrote back to a critical online viewer comment with the salutation, “Hey Fuckface,” and was packing up his desk the next day.

  I toggled back to Twitter and found three dozen more hateful messages, along with one toward the top from good ole Frank in Fresno that against all logic made me feel better.